


I Knew it Like Destiny

by mellyflori



Series: we send starships [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jazz Age, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, OT3, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not a single employee or friend, not even Porthos’ old CO who does the books, knows the truth.  Every time they have an afternoon free, every day off, they walk from one neighborhood to another scanning the faces of strangers in the crowd, looking for the blue-eyed man they saw in their memories the first time they kissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Knew it Like Destiny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amistosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amistosa/gifts).



> For Amistosa, who wanted some schmoop and then came up with not only the original idea, but also the setting. I'm afraid it rather got away from me, but I hope it works for you. You are a treasure to me and just having your name in my inbox makes me unbelievably happy.
> 
> Thank you to Cee for helping me pick music and listening to me rant. And thank you to Anique who knew all the right things for Porthos to tell Athos.

“I knew it like destiny, and at the same time, I knew it as choice.” 

-Jeanette Winterson "Lighthousekeeping"

*****

**New York - 1924**

 

They have to put Aramis in the back of the band; they learned this the hard way. If they put Aramis anywhere near the front, the singers spend their whole performance flirting with him. Even the ones who aren’t into men still flirt with Aramis. So he sits in the back, not a bad place for the drummer anyway, and he saves his flirting for between sets.

It’s not a matter of jealousy, it’s just a matter of logistics. Everyone knows, even the singers who make eyes at him, that at the end of the night Aramis only has eyes for one face. He flirts and flatters and kisses, but he only ever goes home with Porthos. This is a fact, undeniable, there is no one for them but each other.

None of them, not a single employee or friend, not even Porthos’ old CO, who does the books, knows the truth. Every time they have an afternoon free, every day off, they walk from one neighborhood to another scanning the faces of strangers in the crowd, looking for the blue-eyed man they saw in their memories the first time they kissed.

  
The first time Athos saw their faces he was huddled in a copse of trees outside Torcy listening to the rest of his unit pray to not get killed in the morning. One minute he’d been trying to figure out how many grenades he could reasonably carry without being a hazard to himself, and the next he was standing with his back against a tree trying to breathe through the images coming at him hard and fast.

He could see them, could hear their voices and it was all so clear. Every vision was the same two men and the same depth of love and what the _fuck_ had Tyler put into the beans with dinner? Athos stood perfectly still, clutching his gun with his eyes slammed shut, until the pictures stopped flashing in his head and he could think again.

Never, not once in his waking, sane life, has Athos ever felt the way these mental pictures make him feel. He was there in all of them and he was just as happy as they were. Even in the bits where they were arguing they always kissed to make up. A kiss has never made Athos feel the way these did, not the limp-lipped pecks from debutantes his mother introduced him to, not even the furtive fumblings in back corners with boys in bars. But good God if there are kisses out there that will make him feel like those in his imaginings, he isn't going to settle again.

If he can eat Army cooking and make it out of the trenches and battles alive, he can go find someone who made him feel like these imaginary men did. It's just a matter of surviving long enough to get home and start looking. Athos takes a deep breath and steps away from the tree; he’s got a plan.

As if this notion were some kind of hellish catalyst, that’s when things start to go so, so wrong. By the end of the week more than half of his unit will be dead, the battles will grind down into a slow, inching hell. In mid-October, he gets a note from his CO, passed from hand-to-hand down God knows how much of his command chain. Because his CO hands it to him, Athos has to have the man’s eyes on his face while he opens the paper and reads that his father has died of influenza, that his mother is very sick and not expected to live through the week. Tommy is still at home, recovering, the servants doing their best to look after him.

Athos closes the note, thanks his CO, and goes back to his bunk. There won’t be time for his plan now. There will be time for taking over from his father, for taking care of Tommy, for doing all the things he’s always known the oldest de la Fère son would have to do. He allows himself the night to mourn all the perfect kisses he’ll never get; the next morning he gets up and goes to do his duty.

It’s not all terrible. Tommy is a bright kid, clever and funny, and they have each other. It takes a few years to settle into their new positions, for Tommy to learn that Athos isn’t a hardass, he’s just a realist. The business thrives, of course it does; Athos hates doing his father’s job, but he’s exceptionally good at it. And after a few years there’s Jenny.

Her kisses don’t make him feel like those beautiful men who now show up in his dreams at least once a week, but she’s sweet and funny; she’s beautiful and she adores Tommy. She doesn’t make his heart race, but he knows he isn’t her dream come true either. He knows that she likes him; he’s personable, in his way, and she is patient with him, just like his friends are, tolerant of his dry sense of humor and odd quirks of humor.

At night he dreams of those two men, the one with the stunning smile and the one with the huge dark eyes, and when he wakes it’s like someone has put a pin through his soul, the pain is tiny but it’s sharp. But the truth is that Jenny is the _right_ girl and he is the _right_ man for her. Her father wants nothing more than to see them together, and with their combined names and financial weight, Athos will never have to worry about Tommy again. He’ll never have to worry about there being someone around to care for his mother. He just wishes that he didn’t know that Jenny is going to marry him because she promised her father, not because he makes her happy..

Who knows? In the end perhaps they'll be friends, it’s far better than his parents ever had.

  
Athos’ normal Thursday evening involves catching up on correspondence, roast beef for dinner, and finishing off the bottle of claret he’d started after lunch but put down so he could have a bottle of cabernet with dinner. Then, when he’s just drunk enough to push down all the dreams of the two strangers, but not so much that he collapses under the weight of his obligations, he goes to bed. Tonight it seems his friends have other ideas.

“I’m not giving up a night at home to go to fucking Harlem, Charles.”

“Athos,” Charles says, “you can pretend all you like that you don’t put Bessie Smith's records on when you’re sitting at home alone, but I’ll know you’re lying. I’ve seen them in your study and I’ve heard you hum them when you’re so far in your book you don’t know you’re doing it. So give over and come with us. Constance knows the guy who runs the door so we can even get a decent table.”

At a certain point, it becomes pointless to try to resist Charles. He’s charming, insistent, and not entirely wrong. Which is why on this Thursday, at just the level of tired and drunk when he’d otherwise be going to bed, Athos is giving his driver the address of a club in an neighborhood that makes Daniels raise one eyebrow at Athos and give a side-eye to Charles. His driver has always thought Charles a bad influence, he disapproves in a perfectly eloquent silence.

The neighborhood isn’t nearly as dodgy as the address might have suggested, it’s bright and loud and there are well-dressed people spilling out of the door where they’ve pulled up. Athos leans back in through the door of the car and says, “An hour, tops,” to his driver and follows Charles into the club.

An act this big is a huge deal for a club this size, and it seems like everyone knows it; Athos can feel their excitement. The place is packed and music seems to come from the very air. She hasn’t come on yet but the band is playing and there is a crowd dancing and Athos thinks this might not be the worst idea Charles has ever had. The host leads them to a table near the front and Charles orders them all soda water and tops it off with whatever is in his hip flask. That was Athos’ condition, there should be drinks and they should keep coming.

Athos would never tell Charles, but the way he feels about this music is strange and beautiful. It, more than anything but drinking, lets him live in his own skin. Alcohol lets him forget, for a while, that he knows what a perfect kiss feels like, that he ever had a time when he hoped for that in his life. Sometimes though, like poking at sore tooth, he wants to remember, and on those nights the music makes him feel like he’s not alone, that someone else has been that happy, and this sad.

When Bessie comes out she flashes a grin to the band and blows a flirty kiss to someone in the back, the drummer maybe, Athos can’t see anything but his hands. When she steps up to the mic, Athos is lost. He doesn’t remember anything else from the first set except the sound of the singing and the general buzz of good company in the air. The drinks keep coming and the music keeps coming and Athos thinks he might need to go tell his driver to come back in another hour.

As the set breaks, Athos tells Charles he’ll be right back and explains why. “Let me,” Charles says, over the sound of the crowd in the club. “I know which car and I know what to tell him and you’re having fun. Besides, you’re my ride home and I’m half afraid that once you get out the door you’ll just get in the car and go.” He flashes that enormous grin at Athos and they both know it’s happened before.

Once Charles is gone, Constance excuses herself to the ladies’ room and Athos is alone at the table. He turns to flag down the waitress, it’s as good a time as any for a refill, but his eyes only make it as far as the bar. What Athos feels is utter, raw terror. His neck is hot and his arms are cold and he can’t feel his face. It feels like his heart is in his throat and his mind is racing because there is no way, there is _no way_ that one of the men from his sleep-deprived imaginings and his most fevered dreams is sitting at the end of the bar in this packed, smoky club in Harlem.

He feels untethered from reality, like the room could turn upside down and no one would be surprised because this isn’t how the real world works. People don’t just step out of your dreams and into your Thursday night, and they sure as hell don’t look at you as if they’ve been waiting all their lives to see you. That’s the way this man is looking at Athos right now, as though Athos is his only hope to make it off a deserted island, as if Athos is all he’s ever wanted.

“Sir?” Athos hears at his elbow. “Sir, did you want another drink?"

“No,” Athos says, not even really aware that he’s spoken. That’s a lie, he wants the entire bottle of gin that he knows is sitting on his sideboard. Maybe that’s enough to make the world come back in line. The waitress crosses in front of him, breaking his line of sight to the bar for just a second, and when she moves away again the man is gone. Well, that’s even more reason for gin, Athos thinks.

Barely a minute later, just about the time Athos has convinced himself that it was all his imagination, the man is back in his line of sight again. Except this time, he’s walking toward Athos. Whoever this man is puts his drink on the table and takes Charles’ seat.

“You remember me, don’t you?” Fuck, his voice is deep and the little hum he puts at the end of his question comes out almost like a purr.

“I couldn’t possibly because I’ve never met you,” Athos has no idea why he’s so angry right now.

The stranger flashes one dangerous dimple and his eyes are flashing. “My name is Porthos, and a few years ago you started thinking about me. And him. That’s how it works. First kiss for any of us with any other and everyone remembers. I’ve known you for hundreds of years."

“My name is Athos, and you have clearly lost your mind because things like that don’t happen. You just look a little familiar."

“Mmm,” Porthos says, swirling one of the glasses on the tabletop. “Well let’s see, how can I prove this? It’s not just me, is it? When you’re dreaming, I mean. It’s you and me, but there’s him, too. That’s why you remember it all right now because me and him, we found each other. See?" He gestures toward the band and for the first time all night, Athos can see the drummer’s face clearly and God, _fuck_ , it’s the other man.

Porthos doesn’t say anything while he waits for Athos’ pupils to return to normal and his fist to unclench. It happens like this sometimes. One of them doesn’t want to believe it, has a nice life already, thinks it’s a sickness, whatever the reason there’s a struggle. When Athos finally realizes that they’re all memories, not dreams or daydreams or visions, he’ll remember all the times Porthos was the one to resist the truth. He’ll remember the time when they’d spent three months convincing Aramis they weren’t witches and how after that they’d spent almost thirty glorious years together. Always, the struggle is worth it.

Athos’ fist starts to relax, uncurling on the table in front of him, and when his breathing settles and he’s finished furiously blinking he says, “I thought they were dreams. I remember. I remember remembering before. Usually, it’s you who thinks it’s a dream."

The band has started up again and Porthos’ laugh slots in with the music, fitting perfectly. “You're right, it usually is. But that’s usually because you two find each other first and I have to spend years waiting. Could be worse, at least this time we’ve found each other young; we can have so long together.”

Athos isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. He’s wondering how to break this to Porthos. In the end, he’s had enough of Charles’ appallingly bad whiskey to go for the direct approach. “No. We can't."

Porthos looks like he’s been slapped. “Say again?"

“If it were just me? Maybe. But it’s not. I have commitments, a life, a family.” Athos can see Charles on the dance floor, he must have met Constance coming back from the ladies’ room. They’re holding each other and moving as one. Charles’ face is incandescent with happiness and when he trods on her foot, Constance only laughs. The reality is simple, there are lives like theirs, and there are lives like his.

“Mine is not a life you can knit yours to,” is what he says. “Not this time," and that is where he leaves it.

“We don’t work without you,” Porthos says.

Athos tries to be gentle. “That’s bullshit and we both know it. There have been plenty of times when two of us never found the third and we were fine. You’ll be fine.” He stands and takes his cigarette case from the table, tucking it into his pocket. Athos finds Charles in the crowd, touching his elbow and saying, “I’m going to get Daniels to take me home, I’m not feeling well."

Charles looks concerned but just nods. “We’ll catch a cab.” Athos smiles weakly and walks out the front door without looking back. He’s almost to the street when he’s jerked to a stop by a hand on his arm.

“Athos, wait.” It’s Porthos, of course it is.

“I... just give me one night. Just let me get to know who you are this time and you can get to know me and… I’m not saying there has to be anything after, but please just give me one night.” He must be able to see the war in his head playing out on Athos’ face because he adds some extra incentive. “It’ll just be me, Aramis will be sitting in with the band, and Bessie is back for one last night, so even if my company is terrible you’ll still have a great show.” Porthos lets the silence hang for a minute, heavy between them, and when he speaks again his voice is raw with something unsaid. “Please, Athos. _Please_."

Athos’ eyes fall shut, and his brow draws tight. “One night,” he says, without looking up. While they’ve been speaking, Athos’ driver has pulled up and before Porthos can reach for him again Athos is slipping into the car and then he’s gone.

  
The look Daniels gives him when Athos says where he wants to go is nearly the hardest part of getting back to the club the next night. When Athos had gotten home, he’d drunk himself into a stupor in an effort to forget every memory, and god they were _memories_ , of how Porthos’ lips would feel on his own. Waking up is agonizing and after coffee and toast, Athos goes back to bed until almost noon. He hates the idea of leaving the business without him for a day, but it hurts to blink. Tommy had seen his face at breakfast and would no doubt call the office to make Athos’ excuses for him.

He dresses without any real thought to what he’s wearing, he’s only presentable by virtue of the fact that most of his wardrobe is boring enough to go together. Dinner hadn’t really been an option, so the two whiskeys since then have had no buffer. He isn’t jovial, by any means, but Athos manages to look Daniels in the eye when he asks to be driven to the same club as last night.

Porthos must have been waiting for him. Athos hasn’t even finished handing off his coat and hat before Porthos is standing at Athos’ side. He doesn’t try to shake Athos’ hand, doesn’t push, he’s just there, a steady warm presence waiting for Athos to be ready. He shows Athos to a quiet booth in a corner. The tall walls, topped with heavily smoked and etched glass walls, go most of the way around, just an opening slightly wider than the table for guests to slide in and out. It’s a bastion of privacy and Athos pales to think of what Tommy could get up to in a booth like this. The waitress is waiting to take their order. Athos asks for a soda water and Porthos says he’ll have one as well.

“You’re not ordering for me?” Athos asks as soon as the waitress leaves and they have tucked themselves into the booth at such an angle that they’re not visible from the rest of the club. “I thought you knew me so well.” He can’t figure out where the bitterness is coming from, why he’s so angry. Maybe it’s the idea that this life is just sitting here, a life of perfect kisses with perfect men and he knows how far it is from his own life..

“Knowing who you are’s not the same as knowing everything about you. What you like, what you do, things like that change every time. That’s what makes it so wonderful every time, I already know you, but I get to know you all over again."

The waitress drops off the soda water and Porthos says, “I can have them add something to that if you want."

“No. Not… Not just yet.” Athos hasn’t sat sober with these memories in longer than he can remember. Tonight is probably a terrible night to try it again, but there’s something about having Porthos in front of him, seeing that smile he knows so well… if this night is going to hurt, why not go for broke? “So you don’t know what I like to drink but you know me? Is that what you’re saying?"

“Don’t you know me?” Porthos asks and _God_ , Athos does. He knows that Porthos never lies to his friends, that he has a short temper when he sees injustice toward the helpless, that in more than one life he’s seen Porthos give the last of his food to someone else. Porthos is boisterous and loving and a survivor.

“See?” Porthos says at the look on Athos’ face. “You do know me. And I know you. You’re always this quiet, you know?” At Athos’ confused look Porthos continues. “You’ve never been someone who gets his point across by being loud. Not once. You’re always a leader, always know what’s going on and how to go forward, always at the front, but not because you pushed your way there. Folks just fall in behind you."

Athos doesn’t think about the office. He doesn’t think about how he stepped in after his father died and took in the condition of the company and just worked hard at setting it to rights. He doesn’t think about how men older than his father take his leadership with grace and respect. In his memories, Athos has led armies and companies and ships full of sailors, and while he’s had to yell from time to time it’s never his default. He’s always tried to just do what he does to the best of his ability and respect when others do the same. He doesn’t think about any of that because if he does he’ll have to start acknowledging how much of this Porthos might be right about. What the hell is he doing here?

Porthos puts his hand on the table, next to Athos’ but not touching it. “It was nice to see you with your friends last night. I talked to them for a second after you left, they'd seen us talking and they worried about you, leaving so suddenly. It’s nice to see that you’ve had people who love you while me and Aramis were looking for you."

Athos scoffs. “That’s a bit much, I think.” The memory of Constance and Charles in each other’s arms the night before is playing out behind his eyes. They have a certain fondness for him, true, but it’s as much an accustomed tolerance as it is anything else. He knows that people find him amusing and personable, in his way. They say they admire his strength and resilience in the face of what life has given him, but he’s always seen it as a kind of morbid curiosity.

“You’re always like this, too. You never believe us when we tell you how much people like you. _Why_ they like you. For one thing you, Athos, are a funny bastard. Every time, no matter where or when. No matter if we’re up to our asses in blood and mud in some godforsaken battlefield, you’re always funny. And you care so damn much about everyone around you, give them the shirt off your back if they need it.”

Of course he would, that’s what people _should_ do. What’s the other option? Let people suffer? Athos wouldn’t even give that a consideration.

Porthos curls his pinky finger over Athos’, pulling their hands close enough to rest together along the sides. “And you’re loyal, shit, so fucking loyal. In hundreds of years, I’ve never known you to abandon a friend. Not even when we probably deserve it.”

Athos’ fingers curl reflexively, tugging Porthos’ into his own. There’s no way around it, they’re holding hands now, and Porthos’ skin is so fucking warm. “You never deserve it,” Athos says, without even thinking about it, but they never have. Athos, more than anyone, knows how hard it is to live a blameless life, why would he belittle or abandon someone he loves for making their own mistakes? He’ll roll his eyes, he’ll chastise them (because dammit, Aramis, that’s the water we’re supposed to drink for the next six months!) but he’s with them to the end.

“No, you never think we do,” Porthos says, brushing Athos’ hair from his forehead.

The waitress swings by to ask if they’re okay and she doesn’t even look at their joined hands, doesn’t blink at how close they’re sitting. Athos asks for another soda water and thanks her as sincerely as he can. “She’s lovely,” he says to Porthos, in a doomed attempt to move on from talking about himself.

Porthos just laughs. “There, that’s you as well. It’s not that you don’t know she’s from a different class than you, it’s just that you don’t give a shit. You don’t care where people come from, you only care who they are at heart. I’ve seen you stare down men who called themselves your better, watched as you showed their ugly hearts, and I’ve seen you give the ordinary man on the street the respect those so-called big men thought they should have had. You’ve loved a man who looks like me in every life I can remember and you’ve brought hell down on those who thought you shouldn’t just because of our differences."

Athos knows that more than once he’s lost his temper and struck out at someone who had the audacity to suggest who he should and shouldn’t keep company with. He has never tolerated it if he had any choice at all.

It hurts, this remembering. Athos has tamped these memories down, pushed them to the side, relegated them to his dreams for so damn long. It’s not as though his life has been unhappy. He has Tommy and he has Jenny and his life will never be hard, it could even be happy. But if that’s true, why is he here? If he’s so content to go through his life like he’s gone through it until now why is he sitting here with this man?

Athos shakes his head, pushing the want back again. He has commitments, obligations. He tries not to think about how Jenny’s smile will never be as beautiful as Porthos’ is right now. The brush of Porthos’ thumb over the back of his hand, the feeling of Porthos’ fingertips on his face, finally pulls Athos back to the present.

“Your friends love you because of how you love them, Athos. Always have, always will. So don’t sell your Charles and Constance short. Don’t do it to me and Aramis either."

This, right here, this is Athos’ dirty little secret. All his life, every life, he’s only wanted to be liked, to be loved, for who he is, not because of his name or title, not 'in his way', not because of his money, not because someone thought they ought to.

“What’s the first thing you know about me?” Porthos asks and Athos knows the answer. Porthos doesn’t lie to his friends. He says he loves Athos for who he is, and Athos is starting to believe him. “That’s right,” Porthos says seeing his look. “And you should believe this too — I’m about to kiss you, and it’s going to be as good as you remember, and if you don’t want it you only have to close your eyes and I’ll stop."

Athos doesn’t stop looking at Porthos, not even to blink.

It’s not a deep kiss, even with the high walls around them it’s dangerous, it’s barely a press of their mouths together, but Athos can feel it in his bones. Porthos makes a helpless sound in his throat, a plea for more, but he pulls back anyway. “You may not think you can have that for the rest of this life, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you never knowing what it felt like outside a dream or a memory."

Athos knows that Jenny is beautiful, he’s spent hours at dinners and dances being surprised and proud that a woman as beautiful as she is would be there with him. Here, now, there is nothing in the world as beautiful as Porthos and the way Porthos is looking at him.

“Fuck, Athos, I always forget how goddamn sexy you are after you’ve been kissed. Your eyes are amazing.” Athos’ brow furrows and Porthos can’t miss it. He cups Athos’ chin in his palm. “You doubt me again. I never lie to you, Athos. Not even when I probably should, I even 'fessed up to that thing with the hardtack that time. So trust me when I say, you’re drop dead gorgeous."

Athos wants to bolt, and Porthos knows it. “Enough of that for now. Time for the show.” They slide around to the middle of the booth where they can see the bandstand and the singer just stepping up to the microphone. Porthos hasn’t let go of Athos’ hand and Athos hasn’t tried to make him. Their joined hands are sitting on the bench between them, out of sight of the rest of the crowd, but with the sparks he can feel running over his skin where it touches Porthos’ Athos feels like they must be glowing.

Years from now, tomorrow even, Athos won’t be able to tell you any of the songs he heard. He’ll only be able to tell you how it felt to have Porthos’ hand in his while the music came over him in waves and how every few minutes Aramis would look their way with a shy smile and Athos would feel his pulse race.

Between sets Porthos orders himself another soda water and tops it off from a silver flask he has tucked in his jacket pocket. “How about a story, yeah? I should tell you about finding Aramis this time.” For the rest of the break between sets Porthos talks about being in the Army, the 369th Infantry Regiment. Athos is utterly and completely unsurprised to learn that Porthos is a Harlem Hellfighter, of _course_ he is.

Porthos skates over most of his early days in the war and Athos doesn’t blame him, it was horrible treatment at the hands of their own army. It isn’t until he mentions the unit getting reassigned to fight with the French 16th Division that Porthos settles into the meat of his story. “So I look up while I’m in line and there’s this fancy-lookin’ French fuck staring back at me and damned if he wasn’t the prettiest man I’d ever laid eyes on. Turns out he was our official liaison with the top brass. Pretty convenient, I thought because it gave me an excuse to ask lots of questions.” Porthos smile is dangerous under normal circumstances, with both dimples flashing he’s a loaded weapon.

“He introduces himself and I try saying his name and I swear Athos, I got it wrong every way there was and the poor guy just looked more upset every time. So finally I just gave up. I’ve got it now, of course, but back then I said I’d just call him Herbie and be done with it.” Porthos is laughing now and it’s a huge joyous sound. “He looked so disgusted, you’d have thought all the smelly cheese in France was sitting right under his nose. I’d catch him looking at me from time to time and I’d just smile at him. I didn’t have any idea what we were to each other, not then. I just knew he was very, very pretty, and if the way he kept looking at my mouth was any sign, he might not mind if I kissed him. So I asked."

Athos chokes on his soda water. “You just came out and asked?"

“I figured if it went bad I could blame the language, but he wasn’t upset; he just said no. I didn’t ask again for three weeks, I just let him get to know me. Then one night we’re walking near his tent and I said ‘C’mon Herbie, just one kiss.’"

Athos is charmed in spite of himself. “And what did he say to that?"

The voice comes from Athos’ other side. “I said ‘Fine, but only if you never call me that again,’ and he said we had a deal."

“You were so pissed at me for the nickname it took you a second to realize what you’d agreed to,” Porthos says to Aramis where he’s leaning against the opening to the booth. “But you kissed me anyway and I still remember the first thing I thought when I got my lips on you."

Aramis has probably heard this story a hundred times, but he asks anyway, “What did you think first?"

Athos is watching the by-play between them, feeling the current in the air when Porthos speaks. “I noticed that your kisses tasted like cheap wine. The second thing I noticed was that the wine, no matter how cheap it tasted, was better than that rum we used to brew below-decks when we were running pirated cargo around Jamaica two or three times ago.” He shifts his gaze back to Athos. “Then it all came back, all of it. We were just standing there laughing like assholes and kissing. We haven’t stopped since."

“No, we haven’t,” Aramis says before looking down to meet Athos’ eyes with that shy smile again. “I won’t interrupt any further, I just came by to say hello, Athos.” The sound of his own name in this stunningly beautiful man’s mouth is almost more than Athos can take.

“Love you,” Porthos says, blowing Aramis a kiss.

“And I you, my Porthos,” and then Aramis is gone, as good as his word.

“After that, we concentrated on getting home alive and then we looked for you. What about you, Athos? I know you have Charles and Constance, Charles told me your last name so I know a little about your family. Tell me about your life.”

It takes Athos a minute to even know where to start. “It isn’t special."

“It’s special to me because it’s your life and you’re special to me.” How the hell is Athos supposed to keep going in the face of comments like that? He takes a deep breath and starts again.

“I get up, I read the papers with breakfast, I go to work. At the end of the day, I bore my brother by talking about what happened."

Porthos leans forward, kisses Athos lightly, as though it were punctuation, and says, “I can’t remember the last time you had a brother. Tell me about him."

It isn’t a subject that Athos discusses a lot. Not for any bad reason, it’s just that everyone who knows him knows Tommy as well, Athos never has to explain him. He’s reaching for words and they’re coming slow. “He… I love him.” This is true though they never say it, and it seems to unlock something in Athos. “I should hate him, by rights. He’s younger than I, and somehow always… more. Most things come easier to Tommy and he finds it easier to go out and get the ones that don’t. He’s smart and handsome and funny and wilder than he should be. He’s the favorite, always has been, but he’s my favorite as well. There is not an ounce of malice in him. People love Tommy because he’s easy to love."

“Must run in the family, then,” Porthos says and when Athos opens his mouth to contradict him Porthos leans in and kisses him again.

“Are you going to do that all night?"

“If this is the only night I get? Yes. Do you not want me to?” Being unsure of what to do is an ill-fitting coat on Porthos’ shoulders, he’s clearly unaccustomed the feeling.

Athos shakes his head. “It’s not that, it’s just the more that happens, the more I’ll have to try and forget when the night is over. The more I’ll miss them."

Porthos' grin is small and careful. “You can have another whenever you want, you know where we are."

“No. I can’t. You see, at the end of some days, instead of boring Tommy with the workday, I explain it all to my fiancée."

The swallow that bobs in his throat is the only sign that this information has affected Porthos at all. “She must be amazing."

Jenny is— Every word he finds seems somehow wrong. “She’s a wonderful girl.” She is, this isn’t a lie. “She’s very beautiful and very bright. When I tell her about the workday she’s never bored, she always seems to know just the right question to ask. Her family is as old as mine, she was raised around business and businessmen and it seems despite her father’s attempt to keep her meek and quiet, she’s taken most of it in.” Athos toys with the edge of his glass. “Jenny is exceptional."

“Do you love her?” Porthos’ eyes are amazing in this light, the candle is flickering in them, and Athos can’t bring himself to lie even though it would make this so much easier.

“I could. I could love her and she could love me. With time. And we’ll have plenty of time."

“This is you, too. You never go back on your word, and you take care of everyone. Even when you’re barely holding together yourself, you take care of everyone else.” He squeezes Athos’ hand. “I could have a hundred nights and still not be able to tell you how amazing you are. Not just to me, to us, to everyone."

Athos looks down into his soda water with a frown. “This is entirely the wrong drink for this night.” Porthos pulls an ornate silver flask from a pocket inside his suit jacket and tops off Athos’ glass.

“Probably not as nice as what you’ve got at home, but it’ll do in a pinch.” Athos tosses back most of the glass and clenches his eyes until his throat stops burning. Porthos is still staring at him when he looks back up. “Is that why you can’t be with us? Because of her?"

“It’s not just her,” Athos says as he scrubs at his face with his hand. “I have obligations and commitments and, as you say, I’m a man of my word. There’s Jenny, yes, but there’s also Tommy. There’s my mother, she never fully recovered from the flu. It took my father but it left her, and she needs looking after every day. I stepped into his job the day I got back from the war. I walked right into that office and sat in my father’s chair and did my best to run the place the way he would have wanted."

Athos turns to look at Porthos, meeting his eyes and putting the full weight of his life behind his words. “This is my life, Porthos. Nearly every minute of it belongs to someone else. I don’t hate it, not entirely, but even if I did I couldn’t get away from it."

For just a second Porthos looks so, so sad. “Why did you come here tonight, Athos? I know I asked you, but if your path is so set, why did you agree?"

It’s the worst thing to do, he knows it, but Athos reaches out and runs one finger down Porthos’ cheek, feeling that dimple under his touch. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to know how real it was. Maybe I wanted to know you both, just a little. Maybe I just want, next time, for there to be a few memories of you and Aramis in this life."

Porthos sighs and leans into Athos’ touch. “Go,” he says. “You’re a grown man and you make your own decisions about your life, this time, and every time. I respect your choices and I know I can’t know everything about you, no matter how much I remember. But if you don’t go now I might lose my mind and snatch you away, hide you in one of the rooms we use to get the gin in. Go."

Athos closes his eyes and takes one deep breath before he pulls his hand back and leans in to kiss Porthos one last time, while they still have the privacy of the booth’s high walls and the noise of the music to hide them. “Good night, Porthos."

The evening almost turns from painful to disastrous at that point. Athos is on his way to the coat check when he sees his brother on the dance floor. Tommy has his arms around a grinning redhead. His suit is loud and his laugh is louder and Athos almost runs to the front door in an effort to get far enough away that Tommy can’t see him.

“Home,” he tells Daniels, and though he wakes up in his own bed the next day, Athos remembers nothing of the rest of the night.

When he does wake, his head is thumping and Athos has never been so glad to have implemented a full Saturday off for the company rather than the half-day they’d had under his father. He pulls the blanket over his head and goes back to sleep until after noon.

Athos makes it to the dining room shortly before one, but the cook has made him coffee, bacon, and dry toast anyway. He must remember to give her a raise. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Tommy comes in not long after, filling a coffee cup from the samovar on the sideboard and flopping into a seat at the table.

It takes about ten minutes for Tommy’s coffee to kick in, and for those glorious ten minutes it is entirely silent. It is, however too good to last.

“I’d make a comment about you just now having breakfast, but I know where you were last night.” Athos meet his eyes, unsure where this is going. “I saw you there, but you were in a hurry to get out so I figured I’d just let you go. Plus, had my hands full didn’t I?” Tommy’s grin is utterly cheeky.

“Yes, well, you needn’t worry about me invading your haunts. That was a one-time thing. I won’t be going back."

Tommy props his elbows on the table and Athos can almost hear their grandmother hissing at him. “That’s a shame, it was nice to see you getting out and having fun. You don’t have enough fun, Olly."

Athos pinches the bridge of his nose. “I have asked you, repeatedly, not to call me that. And no, I won’t be going back; I have obligations, Tommy. If I wasted my nights at jazz clubs I’d never get into work, and then where would your dancing money come from?"

Tommy opens his mouth to say something and then holds up one finger while he sucks back the rest of his coffee. “Two things. First, I didn’t say all your nights, I just said it was nice to see you out having fun. You work too hard taking care of us and we see it, we just don’t know how to make you slow down. A night out, listening to great music, that’s never a waste of time.” He gets up and walks over to the sideboard for a refill while he moves on to his next point. “And second, Athos, I know you’re the oldest, but you’re not the only de la Fère son in this house. You work eighty hours a week, but you could give forty of them to me."

In a thoroughly undignified moment, Athos starts to laugh and chokes on his toast, coughing crumbs all over himself. He’s still brushing himself off when he says, “Tommy, what on _earth_ would you do in the office?"

“Well, for starters I could spend a few minutes talking to you about diversifying some of the holdings. We’re heavily invested in steel right now and while it’s going like gangbusters I’d like to see some more attention paid to infrastructure investments. Steel may be big for years, or it may get replaced by something else tomorrow. The one thing that stays constant is that whatever’s big has to get from point A to point B somehow."

When they were little, Athos and Tommy’s nanny had taken them to a carnival and both boys had stood dumbfounded at the sight of two trained dogs balancing on rolling drums. The look on Athos’ face that day is exactly the same as the one he has right now.

“I...”

Tommy’s voice is quiet and kind. “Olly,” and this time it’s affectionate and soft and Athos doesn’t mind at all. “I graduated from the same business school you did, the lawyers send me all the same reports they send you. I figured at some point you’d tell me to get my act together and get to work, so I wanted to be prepared. I just didn’t realize how long you’d let me be the irresponsible little brother."

The second cup of coffee seems to have made Tommy positively chatty and Athos is still so shocked he doesn’t even think to interrupt. “I’m not saying I want to be in charge alone, but you’re barely thirty and you deserve to enjoy your life just like the rest of us do. At some point, I think you decided that your happiness is worth less than mine, less than mother’s. It’s not, Olly."

“She needs—"

“And she’ll get it.” Tommy gets up and sits back down in the seat just to Athos’ right and slides his hand over Athos’, squeezing it. "We could hire four nurses to sit with her all the time and a fifth one just to read to her and we still wouldn’t make a dent in the money set aside for it. Not even if you never worked another day. You’ve hated having money so long you’ve forgotten how to spend it. Trust me, this is what it’s for."

“So,” Athos is rubbing his forehead and trying to make the world make sense again. “So you’re saying I should let you take half my job and stop worrying about mother’s care and just fuck off to smoky bars to listen to jazz?"

Tommy laughs around a rasher of Athos’ bacon. “Maybe I’m still drunk and that’s why I’m saying this but, yeah. If that’s what you want. And that’s what I’m saying, that last night it was so nice to see you doing something you might _want_ to do. You should do that more. Don’t work eighty hours if you don’t want to. Don’t take all of my responsibilities if you don’t want to. And for God’s sake, don’t marry Jenny. Because I know neither one of you want to do that."

“Tommy, I promised her."

“Olly. Her father is the fifth richest man in the city, do you honestly think that if she doesn’t marry the fourth richest man in the city she’s going to go wanting for suitors? Her dad might be angry, but that’s not the end of the world. Give both of you a chance to find someone you might actually love.”

 _Too late,_ Athos thinks. _I found them; they’re in Harlem. Right now, they’re probably asleep in each other’s arms and a world away from me._

Are they, though? Athos has known for years that his life is not the stuff dreams are made of, but without any hope of real joy, contentment seemed like more than enough. He’d look at Charles and Constance and it seemed like another world, utterly foreign, confined to his dreams. His choice had been this life, this marriage, this job, or… well there never was an “or” was there? Not until Thursday. Not until Porthos and Aramis.

Now, though, now there’s not only another choice, there’s also his clever brother showing him all the ways to make it happen. Once Athos even acknowledges that it’s a possibility, he thinks about Porthos telling him how loved he is, how worthy, how much he deserves and knows that none of it, not one word, was wasted.

There’s a strange hysterical feeling in Athos’ heart like he wants to laugh until he cries. Instead he looks his brother in the eye and says, “I love you, Tommy."

“Good, because I lied. I absolutely put that frog in your bed when we were seven."

Now Athos _does_ laugh as he pushes back his chair. “I know. I knew then. That’s why I let it pee on your pillow before I put it back outside."

“You always were a shit, Olly,” Tommy says but he’s smiling like he’s never been prouder of his big brother. “Where are you going?” he asks, as Athos starts walking out of the room.

“I’m going to do something I want. Monday morning, Tommy,” Athos throws over his shoulder. “I want to see you in my office at eight-thirty.” As he’s running up the stairs Athos yells down, “Don’t be late!"

One hour, one fresh suit, and one questioning look from Daniels later, Athos is standing outside the front door of Porthos’ club. It’s quiet at this hour, it’s barely three in the afternoon, but Athos takes a chance and knocks anyway. There’s no answer at first so he knocks again. Just as he’s getting ready to leave he hears a grumbling voice and the sound of deadbolts being thrown and the door opening.

“Deliveries go around—,” and whatever Aramis was going to say next is lost as his mouth falls open and he stares. “Athos. You’re here,” he says, as though he can’t believe Athos is entirely real.

“I wonder if I might come in?” Athos says. It would be the right time for him to be shy or unsure, but he’s just calmly waiting for Aramis to open the door.

Aramis shows him into the main room where Porthos is sitting at the bar, his shirtsleeves rolled up to show his forearms, going over the take from the night before. He’s talking to the man who must be his front-of-house manager as he looks up and sees them come in. “I’m just saying I think— Athos?”

Shifting his hat from one hand to another Athos says, “You said I could have another. Whenever I wanted."

Porthos’ eyes fly wide and he tells the manager, “We’ll finish this up tonight, something just came up.” Taking Athos gently by the elbow Porthos steers him toward the back of the club. “Aramis?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Sending the rest of them home, give me two minutes,” Aramis says, breaking off from them to walk through the kitchen door.

Porthos opens the door to a large, comfortable office with a big desk and several overstuffed chairs. They don’t sit, though. They stand in the center of the room, facing each other and suddenly unsure of what to say.

“You’re here,” Porthos says.

“You’re a very persuasive man, and you never lie to those you love."

Porthos smiles, “And I very much love you."

Athos smiles right back. “I believe you. Not just that, I believe... I never thought I could have this, and when I found out I could I didn’t think I deserved it. You made me think I deserved it, but…"

“But all those obligations. What happened?” Porthos asks, brushing the hair off of Athos’ forehead and stepping close to press a soft kiss to the skin there.

“Not gone, not entirely, but someone helped me see a way. He thinks I deserve it too,” Athos says, closing his eyes and basking in just the sheer presence of this amazing man.

Porthos smiles against Athos’ skin, then brings his hands up to cup Athos’ face, one big palm against either side, warm against Athos’ cheeks. “Whoever he is, I like him already,” and then Porthos is kissing him. It’s not like last night, not the soft, bittersweet kisses of a man storing up memories. This kiss is two people who’ve been in love for centuries learning each other all over again.

He’s cradling Athos’ head with reverence, with adoration. Porthos’ lips are dry against Athos’, Athos has been licking his own so they hold and drag against Porthos'. Athos can feel the soft exhale of Porthos’ sigh against his skin and the rumble of his happy hum. He can feel Porthos’ thumbs dig in behind the hinge of his jaw and his mouth falls open. Porthos groans and strokes into Athos’ mouth with his tongue, filthy and gentle at once.

The back of Athos’ neck is bright with heat and his hands come up to grab at Porthos’ forearms, fingers digging in and holding on like Porthos is his anchor in a storm. There’s a soft plea in Athos’ mouth, _kiss me until I’m not mourning all the kisses I’ve missed this ti_ me. He can feel Porthos’ fingers curling against his head, pulling him closer, saying _you’re here now, we have you, more than a thousand years and we will never be through kissing you_.

Athos is just arching into Porthos’ solid chest when the door bangs open and Aramis is coming through the door.

Porthos barely has time to ask, “Are they—?” before Aramis cuts him off.

“Gone. All of them. Have the place to ourselves.” In a blink, Aramis is standing in front of Athos, turning him by the shoulders until they’re facing each other. “I missed you so much,” he says. “I missed this.” Aramis’ kisses aren’t gentle, and they aren’t sweet. Athos can feel them in every hair on his skin.

Both of Aramis’ arms slide around Athos’ back, dragging him close, holding him while Aramis opens Athos’ mouth with the desperate push of his kiss. Aramis is enthusiastic, a little sloppy, desperate. They have all night, they have forever, but Aramis wants it all right now. He licks along Athos’ tongue and moans into his mouth.

When Aramis breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against Athos’ and just smiles at him. “Will you stay?” Athos smiles back and nods.

“Yes. Always.”

When Porthos kisses him this time, it’s like coming home. There’s no space between them, their arms are around each other and their bodies are together and Aramis’ hand is in Athos’ hair and everything, everything in the world comes down to the three of them. Athos feels Aramis kiss the nape of his neck and he whines into Porthos’ mouth. Porthos’ fingers dig into Athos’ jacket, pulling the fabric tight against his skin, and licks at Athos’ upper lip as he pulls away.

“Why don’t you and Aramis go up to the apartment. I’m going to grab a bottle worthy of this celebration and I’ll meet you both up there. We’ll get Alphonse to make us dinner when he gets here, spend the night in. This place can get along without us for a night.” He flashes a grin at Athos. “Or two."

“Plying me with liquor and decadent food? Am I being wooed?”

It’s Aramis who laughs and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. “Y’know Athos, I think you might be."

As they mount the stairs, Athos thinks of their lives stretched out in front of him. Not even the next one, not yet, just all they can fit into this one. He thinks of everything they’ve given him already, in this short, short time. Porthos' voice is in his head telling him he is strong, he is generous and kind, he is funny and loyal and most of all he is so, so loved. Aramis’ smile lives in his soul now, telling Athos how he is beautiful and brave and cherished.

He wants to tell them all the same things in return. He wants to pin Aramis to a bed and tell him how it feels to be under that stare, under those kisses, to make him know how magnetic he is. Porthos deserves to be treasured, to have someone at his back every time he goes to save the world, and Athos wants to give him that.

Perhaps not tonight, though. Perhaps there is no need to rush. For tonight, there is dinner and wine and kisses better than any dream Athos has ever known.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And now I want to write the next ten years where they get a new club and kit it out to be Prohibition-proof. Y'all are terrible influences.


End file.
